The air at Ivato Airport at six in the morning is a shock, but not the way you expect. It is cold. Properly cold, the kind of highland chill that makes you dig a jacket out of your carry-on before you even reach the terminal doors. The sky is overcast, a pale grey blanket holding in the promise of a light drizzle later. I step off the gangway and just stand there for a second, breathing. This is it. Madagascar.
The visa queue is a slow-moving beast, a snake of weary travellers and returning residents with too many bags. I had filled out the forms on the plane, a habit from years of moving around. The officer stamps my passport without a word, a small rectangle of ink that costs about eighteen euros for thirty days. I asked for the convertible visa, the one that lets you stay longer if you decide to, and she nodded, not looking up. A stamp, a click of the window, and I am legally in the country. Bring a pen, by the way. And a passport photocopy, separate from the original. The police sometimes ask to see it, and it is a hassle you do not want.
The baggage carousel is a gamble, but my bag arrives, scuffed and damp, the way bags always are. I walk out into the arrivals hall, a controlled chaos of drivers holding up handwritten names and the sharp smell of coffee. I find a seat at a small counter in the corner and order a coffee, just to watch the place work. The first thing you notice is the rhythm. People move with a purpose, but not a hurry. There is a patience in the air. I pay for the coffee, a few thousand ariary, and my brain is still doing the maths. Roughly four and a half thousand ariary to the dollar, which means the coffee cost me about sixty cents. The coffee is good, which feels like a win.
The drive into Antananarivo is a lesson in itself. I had booked a car through Yango, the ride-hailing app, before I landed, which turned out to be the smartest decision I made all day. The fare to the city centre is around a hundred thousand ariary, a good deal more than the taxi-be, but worth it for the first trip when you are still learning the roads. The highway from Ivato is new and smooth, flanked by rice paddies so green they almost hurt your eyes in the grey light. Then the city begins, and so does the traffic.
We crawl into the lower town, through the dense, heaving streets of Analakely. The driver, a man named Tovo, points at the covered market, a long, low building bursting with colour. That is the Analakely market, he says. The old Zoma. Friday, it used to swallow the whole city. Now it is a permanent thing, the pulse of the lower town. I thank him and we push on, climbing the hill towards the Haute-Ville, the historic upper town.
My guesthouse is on a quiet lane in the Haute-Ville, a place called Maison d'Hôtes Mandrosoa. The building is an old colonial villa, painted a faded yellow, with a wooden balcony that overlooks the rooftops of the city below. My room is simple, a high ceiling, a firm bed, a window that opens onto the cool morning air. The owner, a woman named Madame Rasoa, brings me a cup of coffee and a basket of fresh bread. The rent, she tells me, as we sit in her small courtyard, is about four hundred and twenty-five thousand ariary a month for a flat like this, outside the centre. That is about a hundred and ten dollars. The cost of living here, for basics, is almost absurdly low. It is everything else that gets you.
The morning is spent on paperwork, the necessary evil of any long stay. Getting a local SIM card is a process that requires your passport and a visit to a branded shop. I choose Telma, simply because the shop is closest. Ten minutes later I have a number and a packet of data, and more importantly, a Mvola account, the mobile money wallet that runs half the transactions in this country. Cash is king, but mobile money is the real ruler. Cards are a rare currency in the markets and the taxis; you will get a blank look if you try to tap your phone at a street stall.
The bank was next. I walked down the hill towards the Avenue de l'Indépendance, the wide boulevard that cuts through the commercial heart of the city. I found a branch of BNI Madagascar, one of the main retail banks, and stood in a short, efficient queue. Opening a basic account took twenty minutes, a passport, a form, and a small deposit. The man behind the desk, Mr. Ravelo, was patient with my hesitations. The ATM limit is about four hundred thousand ariary per transaction, he said, sliding a form towards me. Plan for multiple withdrawals if you need more. It is an average of a little over ninety dollars a withdrawal, which is fine for day-to-day life, but a reminder that cash is a physical, limited resource here.
By early afternoon, the sky had cleared, leaving a crisp, sharp highland light. I walked back up into the Haute-Ville, past the cobbled lanes and the colonial villas, towards the Rova, the Queen's Palace. You can see it from almost anywhere in the city, a dark, imposing structure sitting on the highest hill. The complex is under reconstruction, a slow, careful process after the 1995 fire. The entry fee is about seven thousand ariary, roughly a dollar and a half. Walking its perimeter, looking out over the city, you feel the weight of a history that is both grand and deeply bruised. The Merina kings chose the highest point, and you understand why. The view is a geography lesson in power.
I descended through the cobbled alleys of the Haute-Ville, past the French Gothic spires of Andohalo Cathedral, and found a small café for a late lunch. The menu was written on a whiteboard, a mix of French and Malagasy. I ordered romazava, the classic beef and leafy-greens stew, served with a mountain of rice. The bowl cost about thirteen thousand ariary, around three dollars. The stew was rich, savoury, and profoundly comforting in the cool air. I ate slowly, watching the city move below from the veranda.
The afternoon was for orientation. I took a taxi-be, one of the shared minibuses, from the lower town to the district of Soavinandriana, a name I had seen on a map and wanted to check out. The fare was fifteen hundred ariary, about thirty cents. The taxi-be is not for the faint of heart. It is loud, crowded, and the route is a mystery known only to the driver and the fare collector who hangs out the door shouting the destination. But it is the real city. I listened to the rhythm of the passengers, a music of Malagasy and French, and watched the streets slide by, a vibrant commercial chaos of tiny shops and street vendors.
The reason for the trip was a tip from a friend of a friend, a local fixer who knows the city. He told me about a festival that was closing out the summer season. Adabolatsaka, a dance festival that had filled the city's cultural venues for a week, had its finale on this very day. I made my way to a small cultural centre near the cathedral and caught the last hour of a masterclass. The energy was electric, a blend of traditional hiragasy storytelling and modern movement. It was a powerful reminder that this city is not just a collection of landmarks, it is a living, breathing culture.
As evening fell, the city cooled further, and the lights began to string together along the hillsides. I found a seat at a restaurant called Le Siete Bar & Restaurant on a terrace overlooking the city lights. I ordered akoho sy voanio, chicken simmered in a ginger-coconut sauce. It is a proper dinner, the kind that costs around thirty thousand ariary, seven dollars, and it is worth every last ariary. I sipped a Three Horses Beer, the local brew, and watched the city twinkle below me.
The walk back to the guesthouse was a negotiation with the dark. Antananarivo has a reputation for petty theft, and it is one that you should take seriously. I took a taxi from the restaurant, a negotiated fare of about ten thousand ariary, and had the driver wait until I was inside the gate. The streets are not safe at night for a pedestrian, no matter how well you think you know the city. It is not a place for a stroll after dinner. It is a city of doors, and you use them.
Back in my room, I opened the window to let in the cold night air. The city hummed below me, a low, constant drone of generators and distant music. JIRAMA, the power company, had cut the electricity in the guesthouse for two hours earlier in the evening, a routine occurrence I was told. The candle in the hallway had been a nice touch. I thought about the day. A visa stamp, a SIM card, a bank account, a bowl of Romazava, a dance battle, and a hilltop view of a city that felt both ancient and brand new.
This is the first episode of a journey that will take me from this highland capital, down through the rice bowl of the country, to the east coast surf towns, and finally to the humpback whale nursery of Sainte-Marie. But that is for another time. For now, this is the arrival. Antananarivo is not the destination, but it is the necessary beginning. It is where the paperwork gets done, where the rhythms get learned, where you find your feet. It is a return-later city. I will be back, and I will dig deeper into its history, its music, and its people. Manao ahoana, Tana. We will meet again.
That is all for this first step. Next time, we leave the capital, heading east. The road is long, and the forest is waiting.